


the comforts of home

by ohnoesidontknow



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (mentions of Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia / Top Jaskier), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, FWP – fluff without plot, Geralt sporting his black-eyed high-on-witcher-potions look, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and Jaskier wants to climb him like a tree, no beta we die like renrfi, some Ciri sheningans included
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnoesidontknow/pseuds/ohnoesidontknow
Summary: Geralt returns from a hunt tired and sick from witcher potions and Jaskier heals him with some kindness and a fuck. That’s about the extent of it, with some extra innocent family fluff in the end, because even the grimest witcher needs some cuddle-time with his surprise child.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach & Her Human Family
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	the comforts of home

It was pitch dark in the cave and warmer than the autumn chills outside. The air was humid and pungent with the sour stench of rotten meat, making the hair falling onto his forehead damp with cold sweat. His boots were heavy with mud and he struggled to make moves without making much noise.

He felt something nasty and acidic bubbling up his throat and he had to grip onto the cold stone wall of the cave to regain his balance for a second. As he stammered something cracked under his foot – a half-rotten ribcage, so little and fragile it was smashed into pieces under his heel.

_(My daughter, she is twelve just like yours. It took her in the middle of the night– I can’t fall asleep ever since, for I still hear her cries. But I know she’s alive, she has to be, please believe me, mothers know these things–)_

His hands were shaking and slick with sweat when he slowly reached for the hilt of his sword.

A warm breath ghosted at the nape of his neck.

A menacing growl filled the silence of the cave.

His muscles cramped and he might have pulled something, but it filled him with satisfaction as he turned around in a fraction of a second to cut off the kikimora’s head.

Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin when the window suddenly opened and a bloody hand appeared on the windowsill, before a muddy witcher toppled over it and practically fell into their rented room.

“Oh, Geralt, you scared me!” he cried, but he rushed to his side immediately and helped him to sit up. Geralt was ashen pale, his eyes pitch black surrounded by veins, an angry shade of purple. His teeth were chattering. “Are you injured, darling? Tell me what to do, speak to me.”

“B–buhcket,” he gurgled.

Jaskier blinked at him.

“Excuse me?”

Geralt growled, his muscles twitching and trembling.

“A fucking bucket,” he gritted out, and Jaskier, bless him, promptly got to his feet to get it, but as he let go of Geralt, he fell on his back, his skull knocking against the wooden floor.

“Sorry, sorry,” the bard said apologetically, quickly getting back to Geralt’s side with a basin, propping up his back as he retched out something in the ugliest shade of greyish-black he had ever seen.

“Get out,” Geralt growled under his breath, bending above the basin again. “You don’t want to see this,” he elaborated, once he caught his breath, shame already blooming in his chest. Jaskier continued holding him and rubbing his back soothingly as if he had not heard him at all.

“You should really be more careful with your potions, my dear witcher. I know Swallow has a very appetizing red colour, but there’s fine beer in the bar to quench your thirst.” He rubbed down on Geralt’s arms when he noticed the indentations on his armour. Tooth marks. “Did you succeed?” Jaskier asked quietly, sitting back and watching as Geralt stretched and got to his feet. Sometimes it still amazed him how quickly he healed.

“I wouldn’t be here, if I did not,” he grunted as he reached down to his saddle bag in the other corner of the room, picking out a green bottle and downing some diluted mint syrup to chase away the foul taste from his mouth. As he put it back the glass clinked against the empty potion bottles.

“You know what I mean,” Jaskier said adamantly, getting up to join Geralt standing next to the steaming bath he ordered up the room a bit past sundown, helping the witcher getting out of his grimy armour.

They stayed silent as Geralt undressed and lacking all sort of grace his movements usually carried, splashed into the bath. 

The kikimora’s blood painted the water black.

Geralt pulled his knees to his chest.

“She died,” he confessed, his voice raspy, and Jaskier hummed behind his back, as he set to work, pouring scented oils into the bath.

“As it was expected,” Jaskier commented, perching up on the side of the bath basin, carefully balancing on the edge. “You said it yourself, a kikimora’s victim rarely survives the night.”

His voice might have sounded light and bordering indifferent, but the long exhale in the end, as if he held his breath and the sadness in his eyes gave him away. He grieved the girl, Geralt knew he did, and he had hoped until the last moment that despite all the odds Geralt, the mighty White Wolf would save her.

That night he did not only fail Agnes and her little girl, Marija ( _her bones were weak, so weak they turned into dust under his uncaring step, her hair was still curly and golden blond like her mother’s on the remnants of her skull–_ ).

He did not only fail them, but failed Jaskier too.

“I should’ve come earlier. If we hadn’t stopped in Skellige–”

“We were all tired, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed. “Roach could barely crawl the road, I had blisters on my feet and Ciri fell asleep so often we had to tie her to the saddle.” He counted on his fingers. “Oh, and you had that infested drowner wound that made you hallucinate I was a pixie with glittering wings, but that was absolutely not the reason we eventually stopped at that inn.”

“Where’s Ciri?” Geralt asked, turning towards him with alarm. Jaskier took the opportunity to rub the kikimora blood off his forehead with his thumb.

“Well, I sold her of course to the nice Nilfgaardian soldiers, who came here a few hours ago.”

Geralt gave him a Glare.

_“Jaskier.”_

“I got a hefty sum for her,” the bard said, wiggling his eyebrows, but seeing Geralt’s face he, rolled his eyes and conceded, “She’s downstairs, playing Gwent with the innkeeper’s daughter. She’s looking after them and makes sure they are both spoilt and well-fed.”

Finally, Geralt relaxed and turned his back towards Jaskier again, letting him work the worst of mud and kikimora guts out of his hair.

Silence fell on the room, only the pleasant smell of orange blossom oil filled it as he closed his eyes.

_Rotten meat and mold and unknown things crawling in the dark, bones breaking and skulls cracking under his feet–_

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s hands stopped combing through his hair. “I know what you’re thinking, witcher, but you’re not right. It’s not your fault.”

Geralt’s eyes cracked open, eyes still black from the potions peered above his shoulder to the bard.

“Then tell me, whose fault is it? Who couldn’t save that girl?”

“It was nobody’s,” Jaskier said, taking his face between his hands, so gently as if Geralt could break, as if he was precious.

(He would never admit it, not to his dying day, but no torture and no knife cut so deep, right to the quick like Jaskier’s kindness did. _[He loved him, a hidden, buried and half-forgotten part of him knew that sure as the sun rises and sets Jaskier loved him, and he did so in return, to the marrow of his bones he loved him irrevocably to the day he would be slower than the prey he hunts, but he wouldn’t admit that, not yet and possibly not ever.]_ )

“It’s no one’s fault, Geralt,” Jaskier repeats it, caressing his cheek, and Geralt shuddered and looked away. “If you follow that logic it could be the mother’s fault. Why didn’t she look after her daughter better? Why wasn’t Marija more careful, why did she open her windows to look at what lurks in the garden? Why wasn’t the kikimora satisfied with some chicken snatched from the hutch? Why did Melitele herself created such a horrifying, carnivorous beast with an insatiable hunger? Why did I insist on stopping in Skellige?” Geralt finally looked at him again and Jaskier’s eyes were bright with mischief. “Why is Roach a princess, who didn’t let you ride to the kikimora’s lair, because she’s not willing to go outside when it’s raining?”

“She just doesn’t like thunder,” Geralt muttered and Jaskier smiled.

“See, it’s not her fault,” he said, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s mouth, his lips reassuringly warm and faintly tasting like the thyme in the stew they had for lunch. He was still smiling, his blue eyes looking straight into Geralt’s pair of black as he said with finality, “It’s not yours either.”

Geralt turned around and leaned out of the bath to kiss Jaskier again, one hand grabbing at his half-open doublet, his other arm snaking around his waist to pull him closer–

“G’ralt,” Jaskier muttered into a kiss before Geralt captured his mouth again, but then he pulled away more firmly and that instant the witcher let him go. Jaskier wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and Geralt’s stomach dropped. Did he misread his intentions? “Ugh, witcher, you still taste like potions and kikimora guts. We better have some more of that mint syrup.”

“Saddlebag,” Geralt supplied, and when Jaskier brought him the bottle, he downed it obediently in one gulp. Jaskier pecked his lips experimentally.

“Now that’s better,” he said, leaning back, a smug smile spreading on his face. “Minty-er.”

“Good,” Geralt said, as he climbed out of the bath, his hair still dripping wet on his shoulders, leaving footprints on the floor. He took a step towards Jaskier, and the bard took a step back.

“No, Geralt,” he protested, shaking his finger at him warningly, backing away from him. “No, no, no, not until you at least dry yourself with some– _Geralt!”_ he squealed indignantly as the witcher picked him up in his arms easily, as if he weighed nothing, and dumped him on the bed. “You’re lucky I wanted to wash these clothes anyway–” he muttered as Geralt crawled on top of him, all heavy muscles, his skin radiating warmth from the bath.

His eyes were pitch black as he looked up at him, and his teeth were enviably pearly white (his canines just a touch inhumanely sharp) as his lips curled into a smile and whispered to Jaskier’s throat,

“Lucky indeed.”

“Oooh, that was a lucky series! Where did you learn to play Gwent so well, Fiona?” Esther asked eagerly from behind Ciri’s shoulder, and the little girl shrugged in response.

“It’s the sort of thing one picks up when she travels the continent,” she explained, throwing some coins into the significantly growing pile in the middle of the table. “Also, Jaskier is a good player. Geralt not that much,” she added, rearranging her cards expertly. “You’d assume he’s a natural with his expressionless face, but the tips of his ears always turn red whenever he tries bluffing. Just like yours, Sandor,” she said conversationally, looking at the bald mercenary on the other end of the table, who gave her a glare in return.

“Alright, everyone, cards up!” Gregor instructed, and the players did so, Ciri last of them. “And Fiona wins again! Unbelievable!” he exclaimed and eight men around the table groaned in unison as Ciri reached out to the middle of the table to sweep the coins towards herself. As she was reaching for the last coin, Sandor suddenly got to his feet and slammed his hands on the table, his chair falling back with his momentum.

“You cheated, you little weasel!” he roared, his face right in front of Ciri. The little girl only raised an eyebrow.

Sandor slowly turned around as he felt someone poking his shoulder. The innkeeper, Griselda, a tall woman with a huge frame was standing behind him, her hands intimidatingly on her hips. 

“I would think very carefully of my next words, good sir,” she said calmly. “That is, unless you want to get horse piss instead of beer the next time you set foot in this fine establishment.”

There was a moment of silence and then men started to cheer and wolf whistling.

Sandor cleared his throat, set his chair up and left without a word, the redness rapidly spreading from his ears to his face.

“Do you want some more stroopwafels before the next round, young ladies?” Griselda asked Esther and Ciri with a warm smile, and they nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you think your dads will let you stay a little longer if we ask them?” Esther asked as Ciri counted the coins.

Ciri only snorted, and said,

“I’m pretty sure they won’t be back any time soon.”

“Are you, huh, feeling better?” Jaskier asked, breathless as Geralt kissed his way down his chest as he opened his shirt button by button.

_(There was a time at the beginning of their relationship when he simply tore it off, which was admittedly rather impressive, but since Jaskier enlightened him about the cost of a silk shirt he had been more careful.)_

“Better.” He placed a kiss to the trembling abdominal muscles revealed. Firm hands gripped the bard’s slender hips, his thumbs lightly digging into the sensitive skin just below them through the fabric of his trousers.

 _(He could snap the bones with his bare hands.)_ Jaskier’s hips twitched at the thought, but they were effortlessly held down into the mattress by Geralt’s grip. He moaned.

“Much better.” Geralt smirked, crawling up to kiss the bard again, his lips chapped and tasting like mint. Jaskier let out a needy whine and bodily twitched when he pushed a slippery tongue in between those plush lips. He couldn’t help the groan and the lurch of his own hips as Jaskier sweetly sucked on the tip.

Sometimes he forgot, despite their age difference, Jaskier had more experience with this. Yes, Geralt fucked whores every now and then and occasionally there were some women, who offered themselves to him willingly, but that was about the extent of it. Jaskier, on the other hand– he was an entirely different thing. Women and men alike gathered around him like bees around the sweetest wild honey, from Talgar to Raccalå, wherever they went. They wanted him still, although they didn’t dare to touch the bard, not when Geralt was around, but he had seen their hungry eyes.

And yet, time after time Jaskier chose him over them. Despite knowing what he was, despite seeing him at his absolute worst, despite all the scars and potions and kikimora guts, he freely and willingly chose him again and again.

Jaskier’s hand slid down to grab his ass and Geralt parted their lips with an obscene pop. 

“Is that what you want?” he rumbled, pushing back towards the grip suggestively. He had never been good at teasing and playing coy, he was way too straightforward for that, but he liked to think he was getting better at it. Judging by the dilation of Jaskier’s pupils, he was, indeed. “You want to fuck me?”

“Mmm, delightful idea, but not now, love,” he purred, a soft, pleasant tenor voice that made Geralt’s spine turn into liquid.

_(He was never going to live down the first night he let Jaskier fuck him. His hips were propped up with a ridiculous number of silk pillows, in the most hideous colours of gold and teal and at an even more horrifying price, because Jaskier Viscount de fucking Lettenhove of course insisted on taking him to the best honeymoon suite in that seedy inn on the edge of the world, like he was a blushing maiden– And that’s how he ended up crying into the cheapest silk sheets in the Northern realm as Jaskier first fucked him with his tongue, then his fingers, and only when he was so hard he nearly fucked through those pillows beneath his hips, only when he begged for it did Jaskier finally slip his cock in, stretching him inch by delicious inch and fucked him until he clenched down on him and came on those awful pillows, and then a little more. And of course, he felt compelled to narrate the whole damn thing with **that** voice–)_

“Let me do the work now,” Jaskier whispered against his mouth. “Let me take care of you.”

The words, the promise underneath them made Geralt’s head spin. When Jaskier pushed at his shoulder, he instinctually went with it and sat on his knees.

A muscle twitched in his thigh and he hissed before he could stop it.

“Fuck,” he gritted out as Jaskier sat up too, concerned.

“Post-potion cramps again?” When Geralt didn’t answer he moved on his own, laying the witcher down on his back, careful not to pull his aching leg. “It’s alright, sweetheart, we’ll make it alright. We’ll make everything alright.” He gently massaged the muscles of his thigh, trying to stretch out his leg every now and then when he didn’t seem to be in pain. He only let go when the muscle spasms ceased, lying down by Geralt’s side. “You weren’t feeling fine when you said you did, were you?” he asked, squinting at him suspiciously, and Geralt turned his back to him defyingly. “Geralt.” Not a twitch. He wiggled up behind his back, spooning him from behind, hugging him to his chest. Jaskier had a considerably smaller frame than Geralt, but he made the position work. He liked to think about himself as a backpack – a multifunctional and very comforting one.

He lightly caressed the line of Geralt’s shoulder, but he only twitched away.

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, rolling on his back. “How long have we known each other? Thirty years?”

“Twenty-seven,” he murmured into the pillow.

“Twenty-seven, then,” Jaskier amended. “And how long have we been together? Three and a half years?”

“Four years, two months and give-or-take five days depending on whether you count the incident with the Araphnea Drochealis Lyriae pollen.”

“The sex pollen,” Jaskier snickered impishly and Geralt rolled his eyes.

“It sounds unscientific when you put it like that.”

The bard shrugged and decided not to comment on what is scientific and not in a world full of mages, dragons and monsters.

“It sounds more of a fitting name to me.”

He sat up and snuggled closer to Geralt, hugged his torso and put his chin on his shoulder to watch his expression as he said,

“I know you find it difficult to believe sometimes, but I love you. I did from the moment I saw you tipping three times your beer’s worth to that poor girl working in that pub in Posada,” he confessed.

“It was a fine beer,” Geralt defended it, making Jaskier snort.

“Yeah, fine like horse piss. But don’t try to distract me from my point, witcher, in case you wouldn’t know, I’m an academy professor trained in the art of argumentation.”

“You just keep speaking until the other party gives up and leaves,” Geralt huffed, but in the corner of his mouth Jaskier saw the beginning of a smile.

“You’re wounding me, darling, but fine,” Jaskier said, pouting melodramatically, then somewhat ruining his performance of being offended by placing a kiss on Geralt’s neck. “The most beautiful rose is always the thorniest. And its admirer is always the hor–”

 _“Jaskier.”_ Geralt’s voice was sharp, but Jaskier could hear the mirth underneath it. He placed one more kiss on Geralt’s neck, right under his ear, where the skin was soft.

“Alright, I see you can’t appreciate my brilliantly witty puns now. But Geralt–” Black eyes finally looked up at Jaskier, as Geralt turned towards him. “I truly do love you and I hope I never gave you any reason in the past four years, two months and five days or _ever_ to make you believe otherwise. I love you when you’re grumpy and I love you when you smile. I love it when you talk to Roach and when you teach Ciri how to shoot an arrow or when you chase away village boys from her, even though I think you should let her befriend some of them.”

“Boys only want one thing,” Geralt growled, but Jaskier placed a finger on his lips.

“Hush, I’m not done talking.” Geralt raised an eyebrow, but he kept his mouth shut. “I love you when you rent us a place to rest, even though you are not tired. I find it also awfully selfless and twistedly romantic that you occasionally take too much potions because you want to make sure you return to us from a hunt, which has sometimes side-effects that I hate.” Geralt pressed his lips together and avoided his eyes. “And no, I’m not talking about the fact that your eyes turn black and your skin gets a bit even less tanned, I _adore_ the Prince of the Underworld vibe. Actually that’s a good one, I might write a song about that in the future,” he added absent-mindedly. “Maybe not,” he amended, seeing Geralt’s glare. “But now that you know that, do you think the fact you have some muscle cramps and that ruined the mood for a moment would make me love you any less?”

He pulled his index finger away from Geralt’s lips, but the witcher didn’t look him in the eye.

“I-I’m not used to depending on others,” he confessed, his eyes still casted down, black spiderveins showing across his eyelids. “And I don’t want you to feel obligated–”

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighed. “I hope I don’t have to repeat my epic ‘I love you the way you are, I’ve always loved you and always will’ speech, because it would be a tad too long and frankly embarrassing–”

“I’m not used to being loved, Jaskier,” Geralt cut his explanation short, his gaze meeting his eyes again. “I’m not used to loving people either. A witcher is not supposed to feel that way.”

Jaskier gulped, his throat suddenly feeling dry.

“But– but you know it, don’t you?” he asked. “That I love you.”

To his relief Geralt nodded.

“I do. I’m sorry I can’t say it back yet,” he confessed, honesty raw in his voice.

A warm smile spread on Jaskier’s lips as he reached for Geralt’s calloused hand and squeezed it.

“That’s fine, I can wait,” he reassured him. “After all, I waited twenty-seven years for that deus-ex-Aranphea thing.”

“Araphnea,” Geralt groaned and Jaskier waved.

“Whatever.”

He was staring at the mouldy ceiling of their room for a while when he felt movement by his side and then Geralt turned towards him and slid up by his side and reached for his hand.

“Sorry for ruining your plans for tonight.”

“Nuh, it’s fine. Still better than when I was chased away from Dinah’s bed naked as the day I was born by a goose,” Jaskier said, raising their clasped hands up towards the ceiling, watching as he entangled their fingers. “By the way, I slicked myself up while you were away, so you know, should you feel up to– um, _take advantage of that_ in the near future, please do tell me. I mean, I don’t want to pressure you, but by the time the bar closes we have to pick up Ciri, which makes the logistics–”

“You did _what_?” Geralt asked disbelievingly.

Jaskier smirked.

“I stretched myself open with my fingers slick with oil, so that by the time my mighty witcher returns, I’ll be ready to greet him properly,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and he felt Geralt’s cock fill next to his thigh.

“What a thoughtful idea,” the witcher murmured in his ear, nipping at the cartilage, and Jaskier turned towards him to kiss him in return. When he slid a leg experimentally between Geralt’s thighs, he wasn’t disappointed.

“Oh, darling,” he crooned, climbing on top of his witcher. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel up to it, please leave comments or kudos, they keep me going on the rough days. :)
> 
> I'm open to prompts / random messages on tumblr here: ohnoesidontknow.tumblr.com


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